Page 84 of Good Days Bad Days
“Explain. Now. Quickly.” The road isn’t busy, but I know if we stay here too long, someone will call the police or stop to see if we need help—this is the Midwest after all.
“I went to visit her this morning since I’m leaving tomorrow. I got her a new outfit from Lucca and some new lipstick, and I wanted to give them to her before I left. You didn’t seem up to it,” she says, shrugging in a way that stirs up feelings of failure and shame. “And she kept going on about wanting to go to lunch and she was so happy, you know? I think she thought I was you or Laura or whatever she calls you. Nurse Mitchell said I could take her on a little walk by the lake since she doesn’t like the courtyard, and I have experience with this kind of thing.”
The memory of the incident in the courtyard flashes in my mind. Betty’s nails dragging against her thin skin till blood flooded down her arms and wrist. Yes, I can understand why Betty would avoid that place, even if she can’t remember why.
“But when I got her outside, she went to the first car she could find and grabbed the handle, saying we were going to Ike’s. That one was locked, but the second one wasn’t, and she tried to get in. I don’t know—I panicked. So I took her to our car and put Janesville in the GPS hoping I could get her to settle down.
“At first, I thought I’d drive her around town, but when we saw you, she hid under her shawl and laughed about surprising you. I thoughtit might be an adventure for the three of us. I thought it might cheer you up and fix things with you and Grandma a little. I’m sorry,” Olivia says, her eyes filling with tears. “I ... I got carried away. Not only with this but with everything. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Oh, honey. I know you meant well. It’s just—this is adult stuff. You shouldn’t have to deal with it.” I never was a “my daughter is my best friend” kind of mom. That always seemed like a conflict of interest. A kid needs a mom far more than a best friend. I may not have been the best mom, but I didn’t dump my emotional baggage on my child for her to carry, and that has to count for something.
“I’m nineteen, Mom. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“I know, but you should be allowed to focus on your life, school, and friends and all that. When I was your age, I had so much on my plate ...”
“I know. When you were my age, you were on your own. But I’m not on my own. This is my family, too.”
“It is, and no matter what happens with Ian and your grandparents, we’ll always be a family,” I reassure her, quoting all the things I’d learned in the “broken family” divorce books I’d read when she was little.
“Don’t give me that BS. Dad isn’t your family anymore. He’s my family. Please, Mom. Please let me in.”
I know this experience of knocking on a sealed door that has no doorknob, as I’ve experienced it while trying to connect with my dad. Now, here’s my own child, begging to be let into my inner world. I want to welcome Olivia in; I want to be a different kind of parent than my mom and dad were. However, understanding how to open up in a healthy and safe way is complicated. My dad is right—there are things I don’t want my daughter to know. Ever. But why? I tell myself it’s to protect her, but is it really? Or am I trying to shield myself from those feelings all over again?
“What ...” I cough and glance at Betty, who is nervously straightening her skirt over and over again. “What do you want to know?”
Olivia’s flushed cheeks lose color, and she licks her lips before asking, “Are you and Ian going to break up?”
I knew she was going to ask me that. I flinch and reply honestly, “I don’t know.”
“He told me about the messages.”
“What?”
“He told me about the messages on Instagram, and I understand why you’re upset.”
My list of reasons for being mad at my husband is growing longer by the minute. “He shouldn’t have told you that ...”
“Well, he did. And I’m glad, because if you can’t forgive him, at least I know why. I ... I understand if you can’t trust him anymore. It doesn’t seem like you’ve had a lot of people you can trust in your life.”
She’s talking about my parents, I think. I glance back at Betty to see if she’s listening. She’s conversing with her reflection in the glass as if she’s made a new friend. I take a deep breath and tuck Olivia’s hair behind her ear.
“My parents’ house, the way it is, uh ... that’s how it was when I was a kid. You know that, but I don’t really talk about the rest. I, um, well ... I went into foster care when I was fifteen, and my dad promised ...” I choke up, remembering the sincerity in my father’s eyes when he came to see me for visitation. “He promised they’d fix the house, and I could go home, but ...”
“They didn’t?”
I shake my head. “And my mom,” I say, looking at Betty and biting my lip, “blamed me for everything. She hates me.”
“Really?” Olivia’s brow wrinkles. She’s only met Betty, her confused but sweet grandmother.
“Yeah, hon. Well, maybe not hate, but when she remembers who I am, she’s pretty pissed.”
Olivia seems stunned. “And you came back anyway?”
I roll my eyes at myself.
“I was running away from the Ian stuff. Then, when I visited Betty, she opened this window to the woman she must’ve been before me.” I flash back to those first days, the “bad days,” when she didn’t know my name but also didn’t bristle with rage at the sight of me. I think about the woman in the films and pictures, what it felt like to hold her past in my hands. “I thought if I knew what happened to her, what triggered this disorder, it wouldn’t be my fault anymore.”
“See, I get that. Coming here, seeing where you grew up—it wasn’t just about you and Ian. I needed this, too. Like you did with your mom.”
